


Forbidden

by soncnica



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Jared, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood and Gore, Bottom Jensen, Creepy, Disturbing Themes And Imagery, Hurt Jensen Ackles, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mystery, No Character Death, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Child Abuse, Violence, Were-Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soncnica/pseuds/soncnica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't go there, Jensen," his mother used to tell him every single day since he was able to understand words, "it's forbidden." Now he knew why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forbidden

**Author's Note:**

> Lets call this practice and leave it at that. LOL
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and I'm sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes you might find.

 

"Don't go there, Jensen," his mother used to tell him every single day since he was able to understand words, "it's forbidden."

The way she said it made the hair at the back of his neck stand up, goosebumps appearing on his arms. She said it as an order, as a secret, as a plea. And every night, every single night, he went to lay down on his bed made of hay, thinking why. Why was it forbidden? Why?

It was nothing but a path. A narrow gravel path, overgrown with all kinds of weed and grass, fern and moss that grew out amongst all those pebbles. It was aged with decades of no one setting a foot on it, no one cleaning it, no one trying to restore it to however it had been before…

… no one talked about before. Before was before, now was now and before was forbidden too.

The path was a remainder, a grave marker. A way into blackness that ate souls of innocent and spewed them out unclean, abominations, monsters.

The path was there to be seen, to be recognized, to be feared. Every time they worked on the fields, the path was there. Every time they worked on the meadows, the path was there. Every time they went to get water from the nearby well, the path was there. Every time they took the animals up to the mountains to better grass, the path was there. Every summer, winter, fall or spring, the path was there. Covered in snow, covered in lush green vegetation, covered with fallen, dead leaves, the path was there. Every time they woke up, every time they went to sleep, the path was there.

Right there, the start of it – or the ending, depending on one's perspective - right there, among the small bushes that led into the Great Forest.

The people of his village had other roads, other paths that led into the Great Forest and brought them to the villages 'next door', where they exchanged goods; skins, food, drinks, medicine … and got some gossip going back and forth, but that path…

He counted once and counted seven other paths and five roads good enough for horse carriages and all of them never, ever came anywhere near the forbidden path; avoiding it as best as they could.

-:-

But now that he turned seventeen and came of age, he figured that nothing was forbidden anymore. He wasn't a scrawny little kid anymore, he packed a lot of muscles by working in the fields.

And he wasn't a coward either, like most of the other kids, who always did what their parents told them to do. Well, he always did what his parents told him to do too, but only because his father's belt was really heavy and always seemed to find the most sensitive parts of his backside.

But that path … sometimes when he couldn't sleep, he went there. Stood right where the pebbles stopped and spilled into grass.

Stood right there, just one step and he'd be on it. Just one little step and he'd break the law that had ruled over him since he managed to say 'mama'.

Sometimes the view was breathtaking. Tall trees with thick trunks, raising up to the sky with branches carrying heavy, big leaves or long sharp needles. They looked like huge, solid, powerful guards … silhouettes all along the path, until the path turned left just when the eyes lost their ability to see further into the forest. It was as if someone planted them there, intentionally, because there was no way that trees would ever grow in such a straight line. When he'd been a child, he used to toy with the idea that someone did plant the trees to be guards of the path. He used to make up stories about it; witches and warlocks turning their enemies into trees, fairies just to toy with humans, knights and warriors frozen like that by magic, to protect wanderers and princesses. He used to make up all kinds of reasons of why and who made the trees grow like that; protecting whoever stepped on the path, guarding the path from evil or from good.

Sometimes he could see the moon; big, bright, silver moon directly in front of him, right at the edge. If he'd run into the forest, down the path, he'd be able to jump right on top of it. Be the man on the moon. The light was sometimes blinding, especially if it was a full moon, bright and round as a plate.

Once, he reached his hand towards it, couldn't touch it of course not, it was too far away, deep, deep into the forest, but he wanted to touch it anyway. His hand touched nothingness, cool breeze and a tip of a tall grass growing up from the path. When he looked down at his fingers, he could see that they were hovering above the path and he wanted to crouch down, touch the pebbles, make them run between his fingers. But something made him freeze. A promise to his mother, that he wouldn't, that he would never touch it, never step foot on it, _never mama_. Years of listening to warnings about the path, don't, don't, don't. So he never did.

Other times everything was just dark. Pitch black. No light, no moon, no fireflies, nothing. No trees visible, no ferns visible, not even the gravel the path was made of. Nothing. Absolute darkness was enveloping the path, hiding it from him, making him see that perhaps the path really was as dangerous as everyone told him.

Those were the times when he shuddered so violently he thought his bones would break. In those times he could always feel an icy finger run down his spine, dipping into the space between his vertebrae. In those times, he always closed his eyes to the darkness and leaned back, wishing the finger would turn into a hand. It felt so good, especially in hot summer nights. It felt like comfort offered in dark, whispering moments.

He sometimes dragged himself – stumbled and crawled – to it, blood seeping from his wounds, legs trembling, arms loosing feeling and fell on the hard ground, just inches from the spot where the path spilled onto the meadow. He wished it could take him away, take him to wherever it led, to its start or beginning, anywhere but here. He always woke up in his own bed the next morning, covered up to his chin, still hurting and feeling weak from the blood loss, but … warm. He never questioned those times.

He imagined that if he would've taken that one little step, the villagers would either kill him, or exiled him if they ever found out. Truthfully, he didn't know which would be better. This life he led … a life of being beaten up and ignored … if he would've stepped on the path and it would've killed him, he would've embraced death and go down silently. He had been on the brink of death so many times, his father made sure of that, but he never crossed the edge. Couldn't, because he was too stubborn, loved his mama too much to leave her alone.

But sometimes … sometimes in the dead of the night, he could pretend that the path was his savior. The trees his guards, the moon his comfort, death his salvation. It would only take one step, just one … and he knew he'd never look back. Never go back no matter where the path would lead him.

But then a sound from the forest – an owl, a frog, another bird or just leaves rusting – brought him back and just the thought of someone finding him here, seeing him watching the path … the punishment that would bring … so he always turned away, went back to the cottage to try and find some sleep.

But the path … it stayed with him. During long summer days, and short winter ones … the path was always there. Taunting him, beaconing him, pleading with him, to just take that one more step, come.

_Come Jensen._

-:-

He was listening to the wind rustling the leaves on the nearby chestnut tree, his hands tucked behind his head, staring up at the wooden ceiling; unable to sleep, unable to stay awake. His whole body was itching; feeling too hot and too cold, skin stretched over bones too tight. And that was when he decided.

The path … he needed to go there. He would go there.

He needed for it to stop calling him, because it was becoming too much. He couldn't concentrate with his work, when all that he could hear in his head was _come Jensen_.

He couldn't take care of the animals anymore, when all he could hear was _come Jensen_ and not chickens announcing an egg needed to be picked up.

He couldn't hide how much his blood was boiling, how much his mind was buzzing with nothing but _come Jensen_.

 _Come Jensen_ , it said.

So he went.

-:-

That first step wasn't the hardest; he just stepped right towards the big, very bright full moon. It was so simple, when his whole body was singing with need. With want. With _yes, I'm coming_. It wasn't hard to slowly let his foot touch the pebbles. The sound of the crunching beneath his feet was liberating. It made him sigh in relief.

What was hard, was that he didn't want to turn around. He wanted to continue, wanted to walk forward. That was hard, because he knew that he was leaving everything behind. There was no return for him. He would never see his mother again, never see his father, none of the others, he would never come back. The path would lead him either into death or into a different life and it was alright. It was better than what he had. It would heal the scars on his back and his chest, the knife wounds on his arms and legs.

Everything would be alright.

The deeper he went, the more the soft leaves of fern stroked his arms and legs, the more he felt … at ease, calm, comfortable. He had never felt like this before. There was no fear in him, there was nothing _to_ fear.

The tree trunks along the path didn't look so strong up close, they looked old and gnarly, decayed at some places. Some had holes in them, black holes that sometimes made noises at him. Hisses and groans and screams. The holes screamed at him, high pitched sounds and mumbled words that had no meaning. Whenever he touched the bark, it peeled off and fell to the ground in chunks, revealing rotten insides, dead wood and hundreds of bugs eating it all up. Some trees were hollow, he could see it, hollow and dead, bugs having a feast.

The ferns were brown and broken at some places, like someone beat them up with a stick and left them to burn on the hot sun. Grass was the same, not green, but brown and laying on the ground like someone stepped on it and it never recovered.

Everything around him was dead. Broken. The silence was eerie, just the sound of his footsteps; feet crunching gravel.

He didn't run. He didn't feel the need to, even with how everything was looking around him. When he'd been looking in at this place, from the safety of the meadow, all he saw was life, beautiful lush greenery and tall, strong trees. But this … was tortured. It looked tortured, as if death and decay ruled over the place.

He took easy, slow steps, a comfortable pace. He didn't feel as if he should've been scared.

The path was leading him to the moon, to that bright, big moon that kept on getting bigger with each step he made.

Growing.

Growing.

Growing.

Growing until it was so big, he really could've stepped right onto it, sit down and look at the world from it.

But then the path steered left and he went with it; he could've turned around and took a last look at the cottages of his village, as this was the place where the path went its own way, but he didn't. That was the past. His mama would understand. She'd know.

He went left. There was no wind, there was just warmth emanating from the pebbles and the leaves, leaving him comfortably warm.

-:-

He was alone now. Twenty-two long steps down the path and he was alone for good now. There was no way back. No return. He'd never see his village again, his mama, his father, his friends. No matter what would happen to him now, it would be because he chose this. Chose to follow … his heart.

He sighed and closed his eyes just for a second.

To say goodbye.

When he opened them, his sight landed on a tree trunk to his right, the moonlight spilling across the forest ground right behind it. There was something …

… he stepped closer and ran his fingers down four cracks, long, deep. He could barely spread his fingers to the width between the cracks. It must've been made by something huge, powerful. Something that had been bleeding. There was something wet in the lines and when he withdrew his fingers, they were covered with red, sticky liquid, some bark and a little, white worm. He shook the worm off and it fell to the dry leaves underneath the tree.

There was more blood there too. It was all around the front of the tree, on it and when he looked back at the path, the pebbles were red. They looked like someone threw a bucket full of blood on them and the surrounding vegetation. The blood was dripping from a big, scorched fern unto the ground.

It was fresh.

His heart started beating faster, he could feel it in his throat.

The path took lives, took souls and turned them into abominations, bled them dry and created monsters. That's what he'd been told, for years that was what people told him. They warned him, his mama warned him …

He didn't want to be bled to death, he didn't want to be butchered or flayed to pieces and eaten.

He was scared to die. He didn't want to die.

He turned around but there was no path there. It was all just brown, dead, fallen leaves and shadows of rocks and normal. No path. He turned back and the path was there. Waiting for him to follow it.

_Come, Jensen. Come._

He turned around and all there was, was a normal forest ground and even a little incline a few yards up front. A start of a small hill.

There were no hills near his village. And the mountains? Where in the other direction.

He swallowed down a thick glob of saliva and turned back towards the path.

His fingers were sticky with the blood so he wiped them on his pants and started walking, because maybe the path might actually lead him somewhere.

Anywhere.

-:-

He was pushed to the ground.

There was no warning; no sounds of twigs breaking or leaves being rustled, no smells that would make him scrunch up his nose, no sense that there was something behind him, sneaking up at him as silent as a shadow.

No warning at all, that something would crash at his back, out of nowhere, out of the silvery moonlight behind his back.

He hit the ground with his knees first, then with his palms and he hissed when the gravel took the skin right off. It burned, burned deep down to his core, pain and fear.

His chest impacting with the gravel pushed all the air out of his lungs: "Ufff…"

It was something heavy; pressure points on his shoulder blades, his thighs, digging into the bone and the muscles.

Big; it was massive and strong.

He wanted to yell, shout for help, scream and fight, but who would hear?

Who would come?

Who would save him?

-:-

He closed his eyes and prayed to the Gods to make it fast.

Blood started rushing through his body and into his ears, a sound like a waterfall deafening him.

"Aaaahhh!" he screamed, but before he could do anything else, scramble up, run away, try to kick and fight, he was turned around, eyes staring up at the star littered sky all of a sudden, legs and arms outstretched on the ground.

His wrists were held down by something unyielding and raspy; he looked left and right and saw paws.

Paws.

Huge paws covered by long light gray fur, standing on both of his wrists, pushing his hands down to the pebbles.

He hissed and adjusted his eyes to the sight before him …

… three. There were three. Wolves. But bigger. Bigger than any wolf he had ever seen. Sometimes wolves came to the river that ran a bit away from his village, where he loved to go swimming at. The water was cool, fresh, a stream coming up from the mountains.

And sometimes he saw wolves there too. He hid away, not wanting to become their food, but he still watched how they lapped up the water. How they sometimes took a little bath, running up and down in the river, like dogs chasing sticks. Playing and nipping at each other, making these sounds of pleasure and play.

And then they went away. Back into the forest.

But these wolves were … large, big, as big, if not bigger, than him even when standing on four legs.

Their teeth were bared in snarls, long, pearly white canines only inches from his face, throat, chest. There were thick streams of saliva, shining in the moonlight, running down them, hot strings of it hitting his throat. They were snapping at him; inches from his face, inches from his arms, inches from his neck. The sound of teeth hitting teeth and snarls were penetrating through the rush of blood in his ears, making him feel dizzy with terror. He felt so small, tiny compared to the wolves that were standing on him, their paws pushing him to the ground.

Their eyes were almost black, angry and ready to kill.

He felt their paws push even deeper into his wrists, pushing his arms into stillness, the wolves' claws digging into his palms, and he cried out when one blunt claw penetrated the skin, digging itself into his palm, pinning his hands down even more efficiently.

The pain made him lose the rhythm of breathing, making him choke once, twice, three times to get it all back. He looked at the spot where the wolf had dug its claw into the meaty part of his palm and saw something glitter in the moonlight. Blood. His blood.

He closed his eyes. If this was what death would be like for him …

… he heard two of the wolves bark and growl and the claw got ripped out of his skin as suddenly as it had dug in.

There was another growl, from the wolf at his right and he opened his eyes to look at him. The wolf's fur was black as the night, but when the moonlight hit it, it looked gray, silk like and beautiful. Its eyes were two shiny black orbs, looking right at him, watching him.

"Don't …" he whispered to the wolf.

"Don't … "

The wolf cocked its head a bit to the right and was inches away from his face lightning fast, snapping its teeth at him.

He screamed when he felt teeth touch his calf. He still had his pants on, but his knees were skinned, bleeding right through the hole there and the wolves smelled it. They attacked his legs first and he shouted up into heaven: "Noooo! Nono! Nooooo! Stooooop!"

But the wolves were still by his legs; ripping off his pants, his underwear, his shoes, his socks. Sharp teeth touching his skin now, lightning it on fire, there was fur everywhere, stinky, blood matted fur all over his legs and groin.

He tried to breathe; sharp, hitching breaths through the tears running down his cheeks. He was scared and fear always tasted salty to him.

He could feel the wolves move upwards, biting at his shirts, he could hear their teeth rip the blue cotton right off of him, strips of it flying all around him.

"Please, noooo!"

He begged, barely being able to use his voice now that fear had all but stolen it. Like it always did.

There was not an inch of his skin that the wolves' teeth didn't touch, graze, scratch, scrape or skim. Left their spit all over him. Their fur. The dirt from their paws. His own blood.

He was writhing on the ground, trying to move his chest away from them, move his legs, kick them away, but he couldn't. They had him pinned down like he was an animal, their prey, their toy.

No matter how much he struggled, all that did was set them even more on fire, making them snap at him and bit at his flesh with more zeal. They were vicious when ripping his skin into tiny little pieces. Brutal, when their teeth touched his skin and the sharp tips of them pushed right to the bone. Savaged, when their paws and bodies made him roll this way and that, manhandled by three wolves made of pure muscle. Cruel, with the noises they were making, snapping at him, growling at him.

There was gravel flying everywhere when the wolves _made_ him move a certain way with their cold, wet noses digging into his ribs, stomach, hips, back … gravel skinning his naked back, his thighs, his arms, his ass.

He was gonna be skinned alive.

He kept screaming and crying, writhing, almost seizing on the ground, but the teeth still snapped at him. Snapped at his body. He yelled until his voice gave out and all he could do was hoarsely plead.

"Please…" he cried, "please…"

He was choking on his spit and tears, his eyes felt swollen from crying, his throat hurt from screaming and his whole body felt scraped raw and on fire.

But there was no one to save him. The stars weren't gonna save him, the moon wouldn't, the trees couldn't … he was alone.

He was alone; dying on the middle of the forbidden path with the gravel digging into his back and head, three wolves stripping the flesh from his bones with their sharp teeth. Eaten alive by wolves. His mama had been right, everyone had been right.

Forbidden should stay forbidden.

And then a growl cut through the noise.

-:-

A deep, loud growl that made the ground shake beneath him. Like an earthquake they sometimes got, especially in the fall months.

Then the growl turned into a howl. A long howl, followed by a few shorter ones.

He stared up at the sky, praying for a swift death. He was heaving for breath, but the new noise made him stop screaming.

And it made the wolves stop too.

When the growl came from somewhere closer, much closer, he tried to get his crying into control, just a bit of sniffling and gasping for air. He didn't want to aggravate the animal, didn't want to give it any more reasons to kill him. He looked down his body and noticed that … minus some scrapes and some nicks here and there … he wasn't … ripped … apart. He wasn't … skinned to the bones. He wasn't … he was just … naked.

He was naked.

He looked left and right and saw the three wolves sitting patiently at the side of the path, near some bushes, their tongues out and panting. Their tails were wagging happily, as if they were pleased with what they've done.

Which was to strip him naked.

They were happy that they've done that.

What the Gods?

He looked downwards again and could see his naked chest gleaming in the moonlight; sweat, some blood, some dirt and some small pebbles sticking to the lines of shiny spit the wolves left behind. He was … glowing. Shiny like a well-polished porcelain.

Gods …

He couldn't move his arms, tried but couldn't, so he let them lay spread away from his body, his fingers in a loose fist, outstretched towards the three wolves.

They seemed like … puppies now. Massive puppies, but still … they looked peaceful, almost as if waiting to play catch.

The soft rustling of leaves brought his eyes back towards his front, where he could see, between his wide spread legs … a wolf. Gray, silver, white and black all mixing together. Blue eyes. Piercing blue eyes. Peaceful blue eyes. With a scar that ran right across his left eye. It was covered in short black fur, probably more couldn't grow there, the tissue too scarred.

He tried to raise himself up; pulling up his knees, bending them, feet planted on the ground. He was ready to strike, but the wolf was faster.

It made one step – his gray fur covered ears raised up, his gaze intense and directed straight at him - then another and another and its head was at his groin, where his dick was lying unharmed, dirty and flaccid.

He whimpered, because the wolf could easily have bitten it off and chewed it up for dinner.

But it didn't. The wolf made another step and it wasn't a wolf anymore. It was a man, naked like he. Tall, muscled, tanned skin gleaming in the silvery moonlight. His face was half hidden under a short beard, but he could see a mole on the left cheek, a pointed nose and dimples when the man … smiled.

He wanted to say something, but the man crawled forward on all four, elegantly moving his hands and knees on the gravel, his back muscles moving under all that glowing skin. His muscled shoulders went under Jensen's knees and the man moved further up his body, the cold tip of his nose sliding up the middle of his chest, the beard scratching his overheated skin.

"You smell of fear," the man sniffed long and deep right at his collarbone, "like a rabbit when it realizes it'll become food."

He was breathing hard, couldn't believe what was happening and when the man got closer to his face, the motion pushed his legs further up, opening him up, bending him in half.

When the man's eyes came close enough to see them be brown, not blue, his thighs were burning, and he truly felt broken in two. He wanted to put his legs down, down from the man's shoulders, but the man wasn't having that.

A growl; deep thunder that made him shiver and shudder, stopped him from moving. His muscles were strained, his lower back was aching and when the man sniffed his neck and licked it, smacking his thin lips together and licking them with a pink tongue like he tasted something delicious, he started to breathe faster.

"You taste of fear."

The man's eyes were soft, sad; obscured by a lock of brown hair that fell right across his left eye, hiding the scar.

"It's been so long since we had a human here."

The voice was soft, nothing at all there, that would in any way imply that this man, was a wolf. Could growl and howl, bark or snap a bone in half.

"So long, Jensen."

His breath stuttered and got caught somewhere between his mouth and lungs.

"You … you know mm-my n-name?"

The man nodded and closed his eyes, shifting his head a bit to the right - pressing his cheek more firmly to his knee - as if adjusting his neck: "Shifting hurts."

The words were muttered, like they had no intention of being spoken out loud and he gasped when the man looked back into his eyes; as if he couldn't stay away, as if he couldn't not look. It was the same for him; the man's eyes were too intense to look away. They were pulling him in, making him forget all about how the wolf – the man – was holding him spread open with just his body.

He whimpered when the feeling of pins and needles came to his brain, and he tried to shift his legs again. Put them down, close them and hide. But the man wasn't having that, leaning down again, licking a stripe of skin from his collarbone to his chin, the tongue soft and warm.

"Your blood tastes so good."

Then the man shifted a bit and licked at his knees that were burning from when he skinned them when he fell; he could see little needles and pebbles embedded in them. The touch of the man's tongue over the bleeding wounds made him buck up – bumping his dick on the man's - and hiss; it hurt, even if the tongue was barely touching him. Even just the feel of hot breath over raw flesh made him whimper and suck in a deep breath.

"Warm. Human. You taste so human."

He startled; flinching when he saw the smile on the man's face, teeth showing … and stained red with blood.

His blood that was now all over those teeth, smeared all over those lips; little drops of it hitting him on his face.

"Haven't tasted human's blood in centuries, haven't smelled one either."

He whimpered, but couldn't close his eyes, even if the sight of his own blood on those teeth made him want to puke.

And then he felt something poke him right … down there. Right at his hole. Right at his most intimate part. He never ever dared touch himself there. It was just one of those things that one cleans and forgets about. But the man was touching it. And not with his fingers, because his hands were splayed by his head.

He didn't want …

… but it didn't hurt. It was just a pressure of something rubbing there, sometimes going a bit upwards, touching his balls, and sometimes going a bit downwards, touching his tailbone. It was slick and warm, hot even.

He could feel himself getting hard, blood running south so fast his head spun for just a second.

"If you were a woman, you'd be so slick and wet for me right now. If you were a bitch, you'd be even wetter."

He thought that if he were a girl, he'd be so wet, he'd be lying in a puddle of his own slick right now.

"I wish …" the man whispered and started to slide down, making his legs slide down with him, the man's tongue sliding down his throat, down to his left nipple and biting down on it, making him yelp and hiss, to his right one and doing the same and he thought he was going to go crazy. Then the man's tongue licked down the center to his navel, down his belly to his dick that was hard and leaking and needy of just a few touches. Two, maybe three and he'd come. He'd fly away.

"It's not me you should be afraid of," the man slid down, slow, "it's you" and licked his dick slowly, oh so slowly from tip to root, "because you liked this."

He could feel the man's tongue go lower and licking there, right where his hole was twitching, trying to pull something in or push something out, he wasn't sure, because the feeling of that soft, wet, warm tongue right there made him groan and his dick became even harder, spurting out more liquid.

He couldn't breathe, but he wanted to, because the man had smelled of … wood. Freshly cut down tree. He wanted to take a deep breath of that, hold it in and let it spread throughout his body.

But then the man slowly and carefully slid Jensen's legs down his arms and planted his feet firmly to the ground. His knees were still spread, and the warm tongue was back, licking and sucking his skinned knees. It hurt and he tried to push the man away, but he couldn't move. Couldn't even close his legs or kick the man away.

"There, everything will be fine now."

He was spread open; everything inviting the man to stay and do something, anything.

But the man grinned and licked his bloody lips. He could see the man's dick; big, bigger than his own, and longer. If that would have been pushed inside of him…

… if he would've … he wasn't sure if …

… a bark made his eyes snap towards his front, where a wolf was looking at him now. It looked powerful, looked like it could take down a horse and come back for more.

The power was almost touchable and he _had_ touched it. When the wolf had been a man, he had all that power, all that solid weight right on top of him … crushing his fear into _want_.

He had all those muscular paws – arms – touching him, had those sharp teeth near his veins, had those eyes staring right into him … he had all that aggressiveness that the wolf was shaking with right then, right above him, but it wasn't that then … it was something else, something that made the wolf meek. Tame and friendly. Curious.

"Please …"

He didn't know what he was begging for. He just knew he needed something … for the man – wolf – to stay. He needed that, but he didn't know how to say it. How to demand it.

But it was too late anyway, because the wolf was already just a black, wagging tail disappearing into the trees, making loud noises the entire way and yipping at the other three wolves that followed him, jumping on him and around him.

The wolf – man - left him cold, completely naked, panting on the ground. Left him leaking from the tip of his dick, right onto his belly. Left him spread open, covered in spit and lines of blood; his knees clean but stinging, his palms bleeding, his nipples hurting, but hurting so good, sending pulses of delicious pain that added a bit more of an edge to the throb of his dick.

He was feeling faint, stretched as thin as a piece of paper, when he choked on his _need_.

That one smooth lick of a slick, warm tongue down his dick, had gotten him right to the edge, right there, right there, rightthererightthere, riiiiight there, left him straining, all his muscles drawn in tight, but he couldn't get over the edge. He couldn't.

He cried out in frustration; couldn't move, all muscles pulled tight, waiting for that one thing, one touch, one lick, one puff of breath over his hard, leaking dick and he would've come. But there was nothing. Not even a breeze, some wind, some sound, Gods anything, something to push him over.

He strained up, getting his whole lower part off the ground, up to the sky, tried to push come out of him, somehow. He just wanted to come, needed it, his whole body feeling like a rubber band stretched to its limits, ready to snap at any second, just one small tug … his hole was still twitching, trying to pull something in and it hurt, when there was nothing. If he could at least rub at it, put a finger in it, something, anything, to make the need go away, to get the feeling of maddening emptiness away ...

... there was nothing nowhere. Just the moon, the trees, the gravel underneath his back and howling coming from somewhere in the distance, somewhere far away.

He was so cold. He was so hot. Shivering. Trembling. Shaking while his dick was red and hard and hot and hurting, his balls feeling so full and pulled up tight to his body … he felt as if his whole essence was being kept at bay, the need to come so strong, so strong he could touch it, if he'd be able to lift his heavy arms.

He was hitching his hips up and up and up in tiny jerks now, needing to get some friction on his dick, chasing a swipe of wind over the sensitive skin, but there was nothing. There was absolutely nothing.

He was whining, making short hitching breathy groans that did nothing to help, they just turned him on even more, were a vibration sent straight down to his hard dick.

He needed the man's touch, needed those eyes, needed that smell of wood and earth.

He gurgled, choked on his own spit when the desire to come became too strong, when his dick was aching so badly, he thought that he was dying. His whole lower part was going to explode from the intensity of the ache. It was taking his breath away, he couldn't pull in enough air, everything feeling too raw.

He whined and groaned and moaned up to the sky but he couldn't close his legs, couldn't move his arms, couldn't come. He was crying, tears and snot, crying in the clutches of pain he never knew could exist.

The jerks of his hips up into the air became more frantic, he tried to raise up his hands, but everything felt too hard, too painful.

He cried out. Needing. Wanting. Hurting.

_Come._

And then he screamed alongside the sounds of his _mate_ telling _their_ pack _soon_.

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> If I tagged something wrong, please let me know.


End file.
